


Telling Stories

by emynn



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5654473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all create stories to protect ourselves. Brian and Justin are no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2015 Queer as Folk Holiday Gift Exchange](http://qaf-giftxchnge.livejournal.com/tag/2015%20xchnge).

_“We all create stories to protect ourselves.” -- Mark Z. Danielewski,_ House of Leaves

The bed is tiny and cramped. When Justin throws himself into it, exhausted after a long day at the studio and a shift at the bar, he doesn’t mind it so much. It’s not comfortable, and it creaks beneath his weight, but the lack of space is comforting. He can fill it easily, pull the blankets tightly around him, and burrow his face into the pillow pressed tightly against the corner of the room.

It almost works too well, this makeshift parody of an embrace. In sleep, Justin throws his arm out over a chest that isn’t there, twines his leg with a phantom calf, his limbs connecting only with a cold wall rather than warm skin. And then he wakes up with a curse on his breath, new bruises forming on his limbs to complement the one that has yet to heal on his heart.

~*~

The bed is far too large. 

Brian’s taken to lying horizontally on it, not even bothering with a pillow. He stretches his legs, spreads out his arms as if in offering, a sacrifice to whatever mystical being would take him back, take him back to when Brian himself was a god and this bed was an altar and this loft was his temple, large enough only for himself and whatever fortunate fuck was lucky enough to be invited in for an evening.

He slips into his old habits one night, helps himself to a bottle of Beam and his long-neglected stash of chronic. Mikey, of course, stopped by that night. Brian welcomed him in, handed him the blunt. And after an hour or so of talking about nothing, when Michael asked Brian how was feeling, Brian actually gave him an honest answer.

“Empty.”

“You could fill it up,” Michael suggested. “Throw an orgy for old time’s sake.”

But Brian looked at him, and Michael looked back, and they both knew that thousands of Pittsburgh’s hottest men could be furiously fucking and sucking all around them and they wouldn’t fill up the loft the same way that the one person who was missing could, the one person who made Brian feel not like a god, but a man.

Now, Brian is simply a lost god, wandering the endless ruins of his temple, sustained by the whispers of his believers who continue to pass on the legend of the great Brian Kinney, but unable to thrive without the steady touch of the man who believed in _him_.

He walks over to the windows, draws back the curtains. Sunshine streams in.

~*~

Justin knows why Brian doesn’t call.

Brian wants him to fully experience New York. He doesn’t want him to feel obligated, to feel tied down by a boyfriend back home in Shittsburgh. He wants him to live his dreams, embrace everything the Big Apple has to offer, wants him to thrive.

It’s also because Brian is a fucking stubborn son of a bitch.

So that leaves it up to Justin. 

Every time it gets too quiet, every time he’s alone with his own thoughts for too long, he’s tempted. His fingers brush over his phone, ready and willing to place the call. Except then what the fuck would he even say? “Hey, I pass a million people every day and I still feel alone, everybody loves my art but it’s so dark it scares me, I’m afraid I might be losing my mind and will this raw _need_ to have you near me again ever fade?” That would go over well.

He misses Brian so fucking much. It’s a near constant ache -- he breathes in _Bri_ , exhales on the _an_. Over and over and over until it’s not even a conscious thought. It just _is_.

But he knows Brian wants him to be happy. He knows he wants him to be successful. He’s doing moderately well at the latter. Justin hopes that’s enough to hold him over.

~*~

Brian knows Justin carefully plans when to call him.

The pattern is, of course, the lack of a pattern. One day it’ll be Monday after dinner, the next Thursday while Brian’s still having his morning latte, the next Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon, when Justin sounds surprised to hear Brian actually pick up during the day.

Brian always picks up.

It doesn’t matter if they only talked the day before, or if it’s one of those times when weeks pass between conversations, if there’s a mouth around his cock or he’s bringing a client to his knees, be it literally or figuratively. Justin is the one person for whom Brian will always stop everything he’s doing, even if it’s just to hear Justin tell him he that he saw a dog walking down the street that somehow reminded him of him. He doesn’t even need to instruct Cynthia that Justin’s calls are always to be put through; she’s always been remarkably perceptive, nearly as much as himself.

And that’s why Brian knows that if Justin were _truly_ calling him just when the moment struck, there would be a pattern. He may be living the unpredictable life of a starving artist in New York City, may be taking odd shifts at the bar, but he’s still one for routines. He’d call Brian as he walks to his studio in the morning, or on his all-too-short lunch break, or in that hour-stretch between working on his art and heading to the bar. There would be _some_ level of consistency.

That in three months Justin never called at the same time twice is telling.

What Brian understands less is why.

~*~

Justin picks up his phone and, without allowing himself to overanalyze it, calls Brian.

Normally he tries to avoid calling Brian two days in a row. If he does it too often he’s sure Brian will be able to tell just how desperate he is, that his need for him goes beyond simply missing him. But it’s been such a long day, and he now has a deep gash on his arm from a mishap at the studio to go along with the bruise on his elbow from waking up that morning. He’s sore and tired and even amidst all the glittering lines the city has to offer, he feels utterly extinguished.

“Hey, Sunshine.”

Justin smiles. Just hearing Brian’s voice is enough to send a wave of relief coursing through him. “Hey.”

“What are you up to?”

And that’s what Justin hates the most: the fucking small talk. They’re horrible at it. They’ve never had to resort to it, after all. Justin’s used to already having an idea of what Brian’s up to, and vice versa. There’s no asking, just diving right in, getting to what matters. 

This is just… extra. Layers of nothingness standing between them, broadening the distance between Pittsburgh and New York.

“Justin?”

Justin shakes his head. “Sorry. Not much. Finished a painting. Erica loves it.”

“Of course she does,” Brian says, and Justin has to smile again. He could become the next Andy Warhol, with fans all around the world, and there would still be nobody who believes in him and his work more than Brian. “Any word on when she’ll be able to get you in a show?”

Justin closes his eyes, envisions the version of himself Brian believes him to be. A fighter, the most talented artist in the universe, on the cusp of world-wide fame. He tries to summon that spirit as he replies to Brian, even as he remembers how Erica had gently told him how competitive spots in her shows were. “Won’t be too long now.”

“Just like I always said.”

Justin drops onto the couch, lets his head fall back, and imagines Brian in this moment. He probably has that soft smile on his face, that little light in his eyes, the way he always gets whenever he talks about Justin’s art. He always looks so proud of him, like he’s the most fucking brilliant artist to ever walk the earth, and he’s nearly bursting with pride that he chose to walk into Brian’s life and his loft time and time again. 

Justin’s certain Brian believes his stories. He doesn’t call them lies. They’re not, after all. Just… a bit of a stretch to the truth. An embellishment here, an omission there. Not to hurt. Just to… encourage. To show Brian he’s not wrong to believe in him.

To show Brian they didn’t throw away their future for nothing.

~*~

“How about you?” Justin asks. “Did you land the Aesthetica account?”

Brian snorts. “Of course we did.” Kinnetik lands every account. It’s hardly even a challenge anymore. If you want a memorable ad campaign, you go to Kinnetik, and if you’re lucky, they’ll accept you. Otherwise you’ll be stuck with the hanging-on-by-their-hangnails Vangard. 

Justin laughs. “How silly of me. How could I have ever forgotten that Pittsburgh will always bow to your every need and desire?”

Brian walks over to the window, stares out at at the skyline beneath the starless night. It’s true: Pittsburgh has given him everything he’s ever dreamed of.

But it can’t provide him the thing that had never occurred to him to wish for, and suddenly that makes everything else seem worthless.

Kinnetik is the top advertising agency in the mid-Atlantic. Ted’s over the moon about their profits. Brian’s wealthier than ever. He can fuck anyone he wants. He still does, occasionally. 

That’s the spirit he attempts to capture whenever he speaks with Justin. Because he knows Justin, knows his heart, knows his irrepressible capacity to love. And he knows how Justin has always somehow known him better than himself. And if Justin ever suspected… Brian doesn’t think he’d return. Not yet, anyway. But he may feel pangs of worry. Of regret.

And that’s unacceptable.

And so he continues to tell Justin stories of his life in Pittsburgh, of all the clients he’s winning over and the hot guys at Babylon who fucking _worship_ him for bringing the club back from the ruins. He tells him about the pictures of Gus Lindsay sends him and how Cynthia’s taken to seducing the straight clients and how Ted’s still walking around singing fucking arias because he and Blake are so disgustingly in love and how Emmett is driving him up a fucking wall with all his note-taking now that he’s got a book deal and is drawing from his “real life experiences as the most fabulous queen in all of Pittsburgh.” 

Because Brian knows Justin’s time in New York isn’t going as perfectly as he describes it. Sure, he’s a fucking good actor, but Brian knows better. It’s fucking _hard_ to make it as an artist in New York, even if you’re as talented as Justin. Brian knows his apartment is probably a shithole, that he’s working ungodly hours, that he’s painting in all his waking moments, even waking moments when he’s meant to be asleep. He’s certain he’s exhausted and scared and wondering if he made the right decision. 

Brian’s not about to let him think that he didn’t. He’s not going to give him a reason to feel he should throw in the towel and go home. 

And so he listens to Justin’s stories of “any day now,” and shares his own stories of “Kinney continues his reign of the universe,” and tries not to think about what happens when the stories begin to unravel.

~*~

Justin kicks his door shut, ignoring the shouts and cursing coming from down the hall at the resulting slam. He’d gone on a walk in an attempt to avoid all the voices in his head, and all that it had accomplished was to nearly give him fucking frostbite when it started sleeting. No, it couldn’t just be snow -- New York had to physically strike him, over and over again, with freezing daggers, to truly remind him just how fucked everything was.

At least _one_ good thing came out of it, he thinks as he pulls the bottle of Jim Beam out of the now soaked paper bag.

He hasn’t had Beam since he’s come to New York. He loves it, always has, but he always associates it with Brian. And somehow, it seems wrong to drink it without him here.

Pathetic, says that irritating voice in his head, made even more irritating by the fact that it currently sounds exactly like Brian. Getting maudlin over fucking liquor.

Justin unscrews the lid and takes a swig straight from the bottle. Fuck, he’s missed that burn. It warms his whole body, makes his cheeks feel flushed and his fingers tingle, although he’s not sure how much is due to the alcohol and how much is from the memories the drink brings, of dancing at Babylon and feeling Brian’s dick hard against his own as he licks the droplets of Beam from Brian’s lips and tastes the alcohol on his tongue, right before Brian pushes him against a wall and…

“Fuck!”

Justin takes another drink, then shrugs off his jacket, not caring when it lands on the floor instead of on the sofa. 

Christ, he just _misses_ Brian. He knows he _can_ do this on his own, knows that it’ll take time and it’ll be tough but he’s tougher, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to. He’s fucking tired of having to try to explain to Brian what his latest work looks like, or having to settle for taking a blurry picture on his cell phone. He’s tired of fucking random tricks at the bars and still feeling like he hasn’t been touched in years. He’s tired of coming home, dead on his feet, his hand cramping from being wrapped around a brush all day, to an empty apartment.

He’s tired of telling stories about how he’s having the time of his life to the very person who could actually make that statement true. 

One more drink becomes two, then four. Justin’s vision’s starting to blur, and his pacing around his apartment has turned more into lurching around in circles and attempting to avoid stumbling into furniture. 

He knows Brian loves him. That has never been a doubt in his mind. And he knows Brian wants to be with him. He’s never doubted that, either.

But _when_? Fucking _when_? Sure, Brian had said it was only time, but time’s a fucking powerful, painful force, and Justin’s sick of it. There’s nothing “only” about wondering if he’ll ever see Brian again, if they’ll ever be together again. There’s nothing “only” about wondering what it will take, if Justin will have to give up New York or if Brian will have to give up Pittsburgh or if somehow the universe will allow them, along with all their goals and dreams, to coexist, right at the same fucking time, and if they’d even recognize it if it did. 

Justin can have this future. He’ll get by. He knows he can. But it’s not worth a damn if it’s spent alone.

He’s not sure exactly how his phone ended up in his hands, but one second he’s taking another swig from the bottle and the next he’s hearing Brian telling him to leave a message.

“I miss you,” Justin says. “I almost said it a hundred times on that last call alone. And I never have, because I know you don’t want to hear it. But I fucking miss you, Brian, and I hate what we’re doing now. I hate not knowing if we have a future or not. I hate not knowing when it’s going to start or what it’s going to take for us to actually be together again. And I miss you, Brian. And I can’t help thinking that no matter how exciting New York is, even if I do get my big break and sell a thousand paintings and have my own gallery and whatever the fuck ever qualifies a person to be considered a success, it’s not going to be worth it. And don’t tell me it’s bullshit, or that I need to make it on my own, and it doesn’t matter what you think or do. Because I know all that. And I can do all that. But I’d rather do it and know you’re… that you’re with me. _Really_ with me. I just… I don’t know what to do, Brian. I don’t know how we get there. I just need to know that we…”

Justin’s still sitting there, trying to figure out what exactly it is he needs to know, how he can possibly convey what he can’t even quite put into words, how he can get across to Brian just how much he needs to see him again and hold him and know that things will be okay, even if it’s not today or next week or even this year, but that they’re a sure thing, a real thing, and not some hypothetical outcome in a parallel universe, when a long beep signals the end of the recording.

“Fuck!” Justin shouts, and tosses his phone aside. Suddenly exhausted, he stumbles into his bedroom, pulls the covers as tightly as he can around himself, and tries not to think about the way the room -- and his entire life -- seems to be spiralling out of control all around him.

~*~

Brian shoves the door open and drops his bags to the floor. Ted and Cynthia had both piled his arms high with materials to review over the weekend, having apparently never heard of email. Then he’d also had to stop by to pick up Gus’ Christmas present, and a few groceries since apparently he couldn’t survive on liquor and protein shakes alone. 

And then he also had to get the liquor because he was out of that as well.

All of those little misfortunes had culminated in this moment, where he can feel his phone buzzing incessantly in his coat pocket and he can’t reach it because his hands are more full than the judge at a Wet Willy contest at Babylon.

Cursing, he grabs the bottle of Beam and abandons the rest of the bags on the floor, then takes out his phone.

 _Sunshine_.

Cursing a bit more, he presses the button to play the message as he sits down on the sofa with the bottle.

A long moment later, and the bottle is forgotten, as instead Brian digs his fingers into his temples and wonders how the fuck they got to this point and how they’d ever get out of it.

Because there _is_ no real solution, is there? Either Justin gives up New York City and comes back to Pittsburgh, or Brian gives up…

He frowns, digs his fingers in even deeper. 

It doesn’t even seem like that much now. Not really. Not for him, anyway. But they’d agreed that this was something Justin needed to do on his own, to explore this brave new world. And Brian would never allow him to be the one to hold Justin back, to make him feel limited in any way. Not when he has the entire world at his feet. The last thing he needs is an anchor weighing him down.

Except when he’s sitting here, and he’s listening to Justin sound more distressed than he can remember him sounding in years, it feels more like that anchor is coming around swinging and slamming into his chest, knocking the wind out of him and bringing him to his knees. It kills him to know he’s part of the cause of this, that his best efforts to ensure Justin has the best possible future have led to such a tenuous outlook for the one they might possibly share. 

He’s always been a man of action. Words, promises… they’ve always been meaningless to him, particularly when he knows how easy it is to use them to manipulate the masses, to trick them into believing some miracle product is all they need to get rich or get laid. They’ve come to mean a bit more with Justin, but only certain words, at just the right time, and always complemented with a look, a touch, a kiss, _something_ to prove those words are real.

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?

At the time when they needed action, they’ve been sitting here, telling stories, passing the time, waiting for the clock to strike midnight and break the spell and reveal the reality of their situation. 

Brian’s never been one for waiting around.

And neither has Justin.

In a moment of perfect clarity, Brian tucks the Beam back in its paper bag and begins to plan his attack.

~*~

Justin awakes with a throbbing in his ankle to match the pounding in his head.

Groaning, he rolls over in bed, promptly throwing his elbow against the wall. He hisses in pain, just barely swallowing back a curse, and wonders if it would be possible to simply not get out of bed today. He doesn’t have a shift at the bar tonight, and it wouldn’t kill him to take a day away from the studio. Not anymore than the jackhammer reverberating through his skull would kill him, anyway.

He covers his face with his wounded elbow, attempting to summon the willpower to get out of bed to grab some water. It takes a few long, drawn out breaths, but he finally manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed, although he brings his blankets with him.

He has to admit, it was worth the trek. The water helps immediately, although he has a feeling he’s going to need to drink an entire aquarium’s worth in order to feel like a human being again. 

It’s only then, when his head is starting to clear, that he’s aware that the pounding wasn’t going from inside his skull, but on his door.

And his neighbors are taking notice as well.

“Get the fuck out of here! Some of us want to sleep on Saturday mornings!”

“Go home, man. If he hasn’t opened by now…”

“Taylor, open your goddamn door and let us get some sleep!”

Shaking his head slightly, wondering if this was some bizarre hallucination born from one drink too many the night before, Justin makes his way to the door, already certain of who he’ll see when he swings it open.

He’s not disappointed.

Brian Kinney, in the flesh, looking like some kind of Christmas miracle in his winter coat with a carryon slung over his shoulder. And even with the bags under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, he’s still the most beautiful man Justin’s ever seen. 

Justin’s broken out of his stunned reverie when memories of the night before suddenly burst through the fog of his hangover. Memories of deciding it would be a great idea to call Brian and tell him…

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Brian smiles, and Justin feels the world brighten along with it. “That’s what your neighbors have been saying while you made up your mind whether or not to disrupt your beauty sleep for a weary traveler. Friendly, aren’t they?”

Justin shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”

~*~

Brian draws a deep breath. This is the part he hadn’t been able to plan. Get to New York, find Justin’s apartment, surprise the living daylight out of him, all easy enough. He’s still hopeful it’ll end with… with exactly what, to be determined, but something far more pleasurable than words, something far more real and solid.

But it’s the right time, and it’s a time for the right words. If he gets it right, and he thinks he just might, he’ll receive that look, a touch, a kiss, _something_ to prove those words are real.

And so he decides to do what he’s always done best: dive right in. 

“I want a future with you,” he says. “That didn’t change just because we didn’t get married.”

Justin draws the blanket around his shoulders closer to him. “What does that mean?”

“I told you I’d do anything to make you happy,” Brian says, fighting back the urge to brush the blanket off Justin’s shoulders and replace it with his arms instead. “I meant it.”

“I don’t want you to cha --”

“I’m not changing anything,” Brian interrupts. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Now I want more.”

Justin’s gaze softens. There’s no apprehension there any longer, just something like looks like hope, and and happiness, and… 

“I’m tired of sharing stories,” Brian continues. “I’ve never been much good at it anyway. I’d rather be living them. With you.”

Justin reaches out, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as his hand graces Brian’s arm. “Brian.”

It’s unreal, honestly. After decades of fucking and sucking and experiencing every kind of earthly pleasure under the sun, a single gentle touch has the power to liquify his bones. But he’s not done. Not yet.

“As soon as possible. However you’ll have me.”

Brian’s just able to process that Justin’s smiling, that it’s his most dazzling, radiant smile, the one he reserves strictly for Brian, and then a second later those smiling lips are pressed against his own, and Justin is pulling him down in a fierce embrace. Brian wraps his arms around him, tugging him in close, desperate to feel his body against him at every possible juncture.

“I love you,” he hears, and he’s not sure if he said it or if Justin did, if either one of them even said it at all or if the thought is simply resonating so loudly in his head that he imagines it echoing all throughout this dismal apartment building.

Justin kisses his cheek, then grabs him by the wrist. “Why don’t you come inside?” he asks. 

Brian nods and, never letting go of Justin’s hand, allows the door to swing shut behind them.


End file.
